Bubbles
by Dex1
Summary: Sometimes a good whack upside the head is all it takes for every word never uttered to suddenly come spilling out, and every urge never acknowledged to spring into being. Wincest.


Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural.

Author's Note: This is my first and very possibly only foray into Wincest. Unless of course you think it is so magnificent that I should ceaselessly shower you with more. You tell me.

* * *

It bled like a bitch. Head wounds usually do. It seemed like no matter how much pressure either one of them placed on his scalp, Sammy just would not stop oozing.

By the time they reached the motel blood was all over the car, black leather slick and sticky. It was all over Dean, his right hand caked from all its jaunts up to the back of his brother's head where it lingered and pressed until aggravatedly tossed aside, swatted by Sam's own much larger hand. And it was, of course, _all_ over Sam, clotting and tangling in his hair, running in tiny rivulets down his neck and back, pasting shirt to flesh.

Dean told him he'd have to clean the car in the morning. Sam told _him_ that he didn't think he could clean himself tonight.

The world ached and spun as Sam let his grumbling brother help him to the bathroom. Ached and spun as he was made to sit on the closed toilet. Ached and spun as the water began to run, pulsating out onto the cool porcelain.

Still aches and spins as he sits now, waiting for the shower to reach an appropriately steamy temperature.

Dean bends down to untie Sam's shoes, slip them off, remove his socks, all with still bloodied fingers. And Sam watches, eyes swirling in their sockets.

"C'mon Sammy," he mumbles as he stands and takes a hold of the soaked through shirt. The sickly sucking sound of blood wet cotton separating from skin echoes in his ears and turns his stomach. He peels the shirt off of him, silently urging his brother's right arm up so he can maneuver it from the sleeve. But his left hand is still firmly enmeshed in the thick mat of goopy hair near the base of his skull, and Dean has to work to free it, untangle the long sticky fingers, before he can pull the shirt completely off.

"Let me see," he then says gently, prying the clumps of bloodied hair back so as to get a better look at the wound. Mostly stopped, barely oozing. He lets out a long sigh before clapping Sam on the shoulder and lifting him up.

It happens, every so often one or the other of them gets beaten and broken and is left to rely on the other to carry him, support his weight as best he can. But it never ceases to amaze Dean how heavy his brother really is. How big and grown, and simply a man, he has become.

Sam sways, back and forth, as he leans heavily on his brother's arm, collapsing into his hands. He looks down, head too heavy to lift, and watches through bleary eyes as Dean struggles out of his shoes, prying heel with toe, all the while trying to balance Sam's weight. He watches as the different colored tiles dance and buck along the floor, around their feet. He watches as his jeans fall to his ankles, reading themselves to be stepped out of, never even noticing the fleeting touch, the agile fingertips that undid them at his hips just a moment before.

"Okay Sammy," Dean says, grunting as he awkwardly manages to move both of them over the edge of the tub and beneath the shower's pounding stream. "Okay."

Sam turns unconsciously, just as Dean's hands encourage him to do. He turns until he is face to face with his brother, fingers white knuckling his shoulders, gripping harshly at the wet fabric of his T-shirt.

The water is hot and it rolls off of them in pinkish droplets, spreading the dried and sticky blood so that it creates a colored sheen all over their skin before finally being washed away.

Dean keeps his arms up under Sam, supporting him as he helps the water blast away the ugly stains. Blood clings to his back in streaks, clots still sit thick and snarled, caught in his too long hair. He pulls him closer, resting his bare chest against his own, stabilizing his weight as he reaches for the tiny complimentary soap. It's so small it nearly dissolves in his hand as he holds tight to it, running it in long circles over his brother's back.

His other hand reaches up awkwardly, his arm still being leveraged beneath Sam's shoulder, and feels for the wound. He grazes it gently as his fingers begin to gingerly pluck at the matted mess, working to separate the clumps without disturbing his barely clotted scalp.

Sam shifts, his knees nearly buckling. The steam clouds his vision even more and he shuts his eyes tight against the blurry world outside. He lets himself fall deeper into his brother's grip, forehead coming to rest on a strong and steady shoulder, unconsciously nuzzling a too tense neck.

And then his knees do give and his feet slip out from under him, his weight sending Dean spiraling back, and down. Breaking Sam's fall.

"Remember when," he breaths out into Dean's chest as they lie in a tangle of limbs on the bathtub floor. "Remember when you used to give me baths?" And he laughs, light and airy, innocent and pure. It is the laugh of a child. The laugh of an obviously concussed adult.

"Yeah," Dean manages as he tries to straighten the two of them out. He pulls his legs up underneath him so he can kneel before hoisting Sam up as best he can. Sam tries to follow the movement and ends up curling himself into his brother's makeshift lap.

"Remember the bubbles?" he asks in the same murky, mushy, far off tone.

"Dish soap," Dean responds, the words falling from his lips like a forgotten secret.

Sam's voice goes thick with longed for sleep when he says, "Dad got so mad. Wasting the dish soap." He laughs, heavier this time, more himself, but still somehow soft and sweet. "But you did it anyway."

The water still runs red and pink as Dean begins again to finger his brother's hair, gently working each and every clump and strand. "You wanted bubbles," he says absently, the murmurs sinking into the top of Sam's scalp.

"Yeah," Sam sighs. "I wanted." He shakes his head, brow sweeping along Dean's collarbone, his nose pressing against the wet cotton of his shirt. It smells of Dean, sweat and salt and leather. And _Dean_. That odd, indescribable smell that is just _him_. The scent left to linger on their sheets when sharing a bed as young boys. The one that clung to the old AC/DC T-shirt he stole from his brother's duffel just before leaving for Stanford. The one that stood for something, meant something, always reminded his of something. _Safe_.

"I miss him," he says suddenly, whispering unheeded words into his brother's shoulder. "I miss him," he says once more, and feels Dean's body tense, fingers go rigid, still wrapped in his hair.

Dean says nothing, and Sam understands. Because sometimes there's nothing _to_ say.

He pulls his head back, lets Dean's fingers fall away, and looks him in the eye. His lids are heavy, vision unfocused, but he holds his brother's gaze as he says simply, clearly, "But not as much as I'd miss you."

Dean remains stiff, every muscle taught, as Sam's hands begin to climb, slide along the slick flesh of his forearms, up even further towards his shoulders, neck. It's a soft touch. A soothing touch. An 'I'm here, you're here, we're bother _here_' touch. And it makes Dean want to cry.

"I'm glad you're here," he says, and Dean can barely hear him over the pounding of the water, the buzzing in his head. "He made the right choice." Sam's fingertips come to rest on his brother's face, brushing along his flushed cheeks, barely grazing his set chin.

"Sam." His voice cracks, painfully, piously, as he pulls back and away from the touch that feels simply _too good, too right_. "Sam," he tries again, but it comes out merely as a choked sob.

And Sam reaches for him once more, clumsily grasping as his world continues to spin. His fingers begin again to stroke the wet, hot skin of his brother's face, moving slowly around, towards the back of his head, wrapping themselves in too short hair.

Dean silently thanks the steam and the water. For clouding Sam's vision. For washing _his_ tears away.

Sam feels no pain. Even as the hot droplets beat down on his battered head, he feels no pain. Only his brother. That is all he can feel.

Dean's shirt makes that same sucking, sticking sound when Sam strips it off, peeling it away from the skin of his back, his chest. It falls heavily to the tile floor in one thick, wet slap.

They lean into each other then, lean on one another, each moving one hand up to support the other's head. One guarding a new physical injury. The other hoping to heal an older invisible wound. And each pulls closer and closer, until their foreheads meet, colliding imperceptibly with one another, forcing the streaming water to trail off in different directions. It makes new tracks down the sides of their faces, rounding over cheeks, arcing off of bowed lips, flowing into two open mouths. Separated. Until not.

Their lips meet, barely touching, unmoving, as water continues to drip from them. They breathe in each other's breath, steam filling their lungs alongside. It's Dean who first shifts, reaching the tip of his tongue out, only slightly, to collect the shower water, keep it from filling his parted mouth. But they are so close that he grazes Sam's tender lip as well.

It feels natural. Because they are so close. Because they simply _are_. All that they have. All that they need.

Sam leans in and presses his mouth into Dean's, traces the lines of his lips with his tongue. He gasps slightly when Dean's hand pushes closer to the scalp wound, fingers tightening in his hair. But the sharp emission is lost inside his brother's mouth as Dean opens wider, pulling every part of him closer.

Their teeth click softly against each other, tongues mapping their ridges. They break apart only briefly, just long enough to breathe. Just long enough for Dean to discern his brother's taste, label it and file it away with all things Sammy.

They break apart just long enough for Sam to lean back and swallow, letting the mellow warmth of his brother trickle down his throat.

Dean still holds the nearly spent bar of soap in one hand. He trails it down Sam's spine, feeling the soft lather, the tender prickling of tiny bubbles spreading between his fingertips as they drift lower and lower.

Until they've gone as low as they can possibly go.

"I'm glad you're here," Sam says again, gasps into his mouth.

And Dean winces slightly, salty tears running down his face, falling to his brother's cheeks. It's a lie. But Dean would never keep him from having what he wants. "Me too," he says gently, the words rumbling up from his chest, melting into Sam's soft flesh. "Me too."


End file.
